Love lies a Bleeding.
By whose mortal wounds you may soon understand,
What sorrows wee suffer since Love left the Land.
To the Tune of, The Cyclops.
|
LAy by your pleading
|
Love lies a bleeding,
|
Burn all your Poetry, and throw away your reading,
|
Piety is painted
|
and Truth is tainted
|
Love is a Reprobate, and Shism now is Sainted
|
the Throne Love doth sit on,
|
wee daily do spit on,
|
It was not thus, I wus, when Betty rul'd in Brittain.
|
but friendship hath falter'd
|
Loves Altars are alter'd
|
And he that is the cause, I would his neck were halter'd
|
When Love did nourish,
|
England did flourish,
|
Till holy hate came in, and made us all so currish,
|
now every Widgeon
|
talks of Religion,
|
But doth as little good as Mahomet and's Pigeon
|
each Coxcomb is suiting,
|
his words for confuting,
|
but heaven's sooner gaind by suffering than by disputing
|
true friendship wee smother,
|
and strike at our Brother,
|
Apostles never went to God by killing one another.
|
Let Love but warm yee,
|
Nothing can harm yee,
|
When love is General, there's Angels in the Army
|
Love keeps his Quarters,
|
and fears no tortures
|
The bravest fights are written in the book of Martyrs
|
could wee be so civil,
|
to do good for evil,
|
It were the onely happy way to overcome the Devil,
|
the flowers Love hath watered,
|
Sedition hath scattered
|
We talk with tongues of holiness, but act with hearts of hatred
|
He that doth know mee,
|
and Love will show me
|
Hath found the nearest, noblest way to over-come me
|
he that hath bound me,
|
and then doth wound me,
|
Wins not my heart, he doth not conquer but confound me,
|
in such a condition
|
Love is a Physician,
|
True Love and Reason makes the purest Polititian,
|
but strife and confusion
|
deceit and delusion
|
Though it seems to thrive at the first wil make a sad conclusion.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part, To the same Tune
|
LOve is a fewel,
|
A pretious jewel,
|
'Tis Love must stinch the blood, when fury fights the duel,
|
Love is a Bloudstone
|
hate is a Toad-stone,
|
Heaven is the North-point, and Love is the Load-stone
|
though fury and scorn
|
Loves Temples have torn,
|
Hee'l keep his Covenant, and will not be forsworn,
|
his Laws do not border,
|
on strife and disorder,
|
He scorns to get his wealth by perjury or Murder.
|
What false-hood drew in,
|
Grace never grew in
|
Love will not raise himself upon anothers ruine,
|
hee can present yee
|
with peace and plenty
|
love never advanceth one by throwing down of twenty,
|
where Love is in season
|
there Truth is, and reason
|
The soul of Love is never underlaid with treason,
|
he never doth quarrel
|
for Princely apparel,
|
Nor ever fixt a Chair of State upon a barrel.
|
Love from the dull pit
|
Of follies full pit
|
Nev'r took an Anvile out and put it in a Pulpit,
|
Love is no sinker,
|
Truth is no slinker,
|
In mending breaches, Love did never play the Tinkar
|
where vengeance and lust is
|
no truth is, nor trust is
|
As will appear at last in Gods high court of Justice
|
pitty and remorce is
|
the strength of Loves forces
|
Paul never converted me by stables fil'd with horses.
|
Mercy is fading,
|
Truth is degrading,
|
Love is the onely cause of Plenty, Peace, & Trading
|
Love is a fire
|
made of desire
|
Whose chief ambition is to heaven to asp[ir]e
|
it stops the gradation
|
of fury and passion
|
It governs all good families, & best can guide a Natio[n]
|
the lowland, the highland,
|
& my land and thy land
|
Grew all in common strait, when love had left this Island.
|
Where Peace is panting
|
And rage is ranting,
|
'Tis an undoubted sign the King of Love is wanting,
|
Father and Mother,
|
Sister and Brother
|
If love be lacking, quickly mischief one a-nother,
|
where wrath is, the rod is
|
that ruines our bodies
|
With hate the Devil is, but where love is, God is,
|
then let us not doubt it,
|
but straight go about it
|
To bring in love agen, wee cannot live without it.
|
Then let the Graces
|
Crown our embraces
|
And let us settle all things in their proper places,
|
lest Persecution
|
cause dissolution,
|
Let all purloyned wealth bee made a resti-tution
|
For though now it tickles,
|
turn all to prickles,
|
Then let us live in peace & turn our swords to sickles,
|
When Noah's Dove was sent out,
|
then Gods pardon went out,
|
They that would have it so, I hope will say Amen to't.
|
|
|
|
|